


bring back what once was mine

by handwrittenhello



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Falling In Love, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Tangled (2010), Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Necromancy, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rapunzel Elements, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Character Death, jaskier puts the romance in necromance, like for one second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: “I have a contract for you,” Jaskier began, noting the way the witcher’s eyes lit up at the mention. “I’d like to hire you as a bodyguard. I'm traveling to Novigrad for the midsummer festival, and the road is dangerous."Novigrad—the Free City. If he could make it across city limits, he would be free to find his own destiny. The king would hold no sway over him there.When Jaskier sneaks out of the tower he's been locked in his whole life, he doesn't expect to fall in love with the witcher he comes across.--Written for the Geraskier Reverse Bang 2020, with art by beeruler.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 51
Kudos: 440
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	bring back what once was mine

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Geraskier Reverse Bang, based on some fantastic art by [ beeruler](https://beeruler.tumblr.com), which you can view [here on tumblr.](https://beeruler.tumblr.com/post/643509818325401600/my-geraskierreversebang-piece-done-for)
> 
> Thanks to KHansen for betaing! Title from the Tangled song (does it have a name? lol)

Jaskier opened his window as quietly as he could, peeking his head out at the same time to make sure there were no guards below. All he saw was the faint light of flickering torches that lined the castle walls far below him. Perfect.

Well experienced at this by now, he swung himself out of the window and perched on the sill, hands and feet easily finding the well-worn chinks in the tower wall that let him slowly descend, climbing down soundlessly and with the ease borne of long practice.

He dropped to the ground just as he heard the clank of armored boots approaching, and quickly ducked underneath the bushes that lined the castle walls. Hopefully Crumb wouldn’t flutter down to meet him until the guard passed.

He held his breath, heart pounding, but the guard walked by without noticing him or his open window. Jaskier whistled a low note to let Crumb know that it was safe to fly, and a flutter of wings, followed by tiny feet perching on his shoulder, let him know that Crumb had joined him.

“Ready?” he whispered, and Crumb pecked him lightly on the earlobe. Yep.

They snuck along the wall until they reached the main gate. Crumb fluttered easily between the bars, while Jaskier put his climbing skills to use again, scampering up the wall beside the gate, onto the battlements, and then climbing down the other side.

And then they were free, for the scant few hours before the sun rose and they had to sneak back into the tower. Free as a bird—literally, in Crumb’s case—to explore the town.

It was only a short walk down the winding path from the castle down to where the town of Tretogor lay, houses brightly lit, beckoning like a beacon. It was almost midsummer, and soon the people of the Continent would begin preparing for the midsummer festival. He’d never been—being locked in a tower all his life really wasn’t conducive for much of a social life—but this year, he was determined to go.

Hence all the sneaking out—it was fascinating to hear the buzz of their chatter as the holiday approached. They often spoke of the preparations they were doing, crafting lanterns they would light and cast into the sky on the day of the festival, talking and singing and sometimes even dancing the nights away.

It was the singing he liked most; he was only permitted to when the king allowed it. Only he benefited from the magic that Jaskier’s song could bring, the music keeping him much younger and in better shape than he had any right to be. Jaskier was banned from singing any other time, lest he waste his magic on anyone else, and to make sure of it, the king had long ago ordered Jaskier locked in his room at the top of the north tower, far away from anyone else. 

Jaskier had already decided that when he became king, he would sing whenever he wanted, letting his music float freely through the air. But until then, he would continue to sneak out and soak up the melodies that drifted through the warm summer air.

When they got to the edge of town, he pulled up the hood of his cloak, though it was hardly cold out. More important was not being instantly recognized; if his father learned that he’d snuck out, again, there would be consequences—far worse ones than last time.

He shivered at the memory. He was a naturally sociable person, and those two weeks confined to his tower, with his father his only occasional visitor, had been miserable. If not for Crumb, Jaskier likely would have gone mad.

But he would be careful this time. Besides, the only people out on the streets were the drunks stumbling home from the taverns, nobody to worry about spotting him.

He crept past the town square, always staying on the outskirts, wreathed in shadow. His destination was the Dancing Otter, the local tavern; people would gather there to drink, sing, and gamble the night away.

Crumb beat him there, fluttering to land on a windowsill, which he squatted under, careful to keep out of sight. Listening in, he could hear it—the murmur of many people talking, but over that, a bard carried a simple tune, a work song, one with an easy melody and memorable lyrics.

He knew the song by now, after his many trips into the town, though it was nothing like the songs his father allowed him to learn, with their complex melodies and arcane lyrics. He was quite talented at the latter, but liked the former most of all, with their sense of community and togetherness they conveyed.

As loud as he dared, he hummed under his breath, as the bard finished that song and moved onto the next, which he also knew. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest against the side of the building, feeling the warmth of many bodies in a small space emanating through it, imagining that he was inside with them.

He imagined that he was the bard, well-renowned and well-traveled, famed for his singing across the Continent. He imagined being able to sing whatever and whenever he wanted, mingling among the townspeople freely, seeing the world and all it had to offer.

The sound of the tavern door opening interrupted his daydreams. Jaskier scrambled out of sight, hiding in the shadows, and watched silently as an armored, white-haired man exited the tavern.

Scratch that, not a man—a _witcher,_ Jaskier realized as he caught a flash of golden slitted eyes. And then an idea dawned on him.

Before he could consider whether it was a good or frankly terrible idea, he squared his shoulders and strode out of the shadows. The witcher’s eyes widened and then narrowed at his approach.

“Witcher! Might I beg a moment of your time?” Jaskier asked, relieved when the witcher didn’t immediately draw the sword on his back.

“What is it?” the witcher grunted, crossing his arms.

“I have a contract for you,” Jaskier began, noting the way the witcher’s eyes lit up at the mention. “I’d like to hire you as a bodyguard,” he continued, heart racing at his own daring words. “The road is dangerous, and I’m traveling to Novigrad for the midsummer festival.”

Novigrad—the Free City. If he could make it across city limits, he would be free to find his own destiny. The king would hold no sway over him there.

“I’m a witcher, not a bodyguard,” the witcher said flatly. “Ask around for a mercenary instead.”

“But a witcher is the best, is he not? And I can pay, I promise, much more than you might get for a contract,” Jaskier cajoled. He might have to sell a ring or two to afford it, but if it meant successfully fleeing the palace, with a witcher at his back? He would pay anything, as much as the thought of running away terrified and excited him in equal measure.

The witcher grunted again, though he was still here, so Jaskier assumed he was at least a bit interested.

“It would only be two weeks, and I promise, much worth your while,” Jaskier wheedled.

“A thousand crowns,” the witcher demanded, and Jaskier balked.

“You drive a hard bargain, my friend. Seven fifty.”

“Eight fifty.”

“Done.” And he held out a hand to shake. The witcher reluctantly took it, his leather gloves warm against Jaskier’s skin. “You can call me Jaskier, by the way.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” the witcher returned, curtly, but politely. He withdrew his hand and looked Jaskier up and down. “Where are your things?”

Ah, yes. He hadn’t exactly planned for this. Luckily, he was quick on his feet to make something up. “I was mugged on the road yesterday,” he lied. “At least they left me with my clothes, but alas, I have only what you see before you.”

Geralt’s expression grew even flatter, if that were possible. “I don’t like being lied to,” he warned. “Want to try again?”

Fuck. He’d heard the rumors of witchers’ superhuman abilities, but hadn’t lent the “sniffing out lies” bit much credence. “Alright, fine,” he confessed. “This was more spur of the moment than a planned trip, but I _am_ going.”

“Hmm,” the witcher replied, and was Jaskier imagining it, or did his face soften? He didn’t leave or reach for his sword, so Jaskier figured he was in the clear. “I’ll get us a room at the inn, and we can set out tomorrow morning. But you’re paying,” the witcher instructed, and Jaskier's blood ran cold. If he wasn’t at the palace come morning, and his father came looking for him in the town…

“No!” he yelped. “I mean, can’t we leave tonight?” he pleaded.

The witcher looked at him for one long, searching moment, and for a second Jaskier feared that he would call the entire deal off. But eventually he nodded, and led Jaskier to the stables, where he mounted a beautiful mare.

“What’s her name?” Jaskier asked as they set off. Crumb, meanwhile, had long grown tired given the late hour, and was perched on his shoulder, fast asleep.

“Roach.”

“What kind of name is that for a horse?” Jaskier scoffed.

Geralt tilted his head at Crumb. “What’s your bird’s name?” he asked instead of responding.

“Crumb,” Jaskier answered, feeling self-conscious. “But at least there’s a story behind it.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask. Jaskier launched into the story anyway—it was a good story, after all, and he needed to pass the time somehow.

“I found her one day,” he began, carefully considering his words. “She was nearly dead—” (a lie: she had been dead before he even found her) “—and I helped her.” If by _helped_ he meant _magicked back to life._ “But all I had to feed her with were breadcrumbs, so. The name stuck.” She had liked the name, too, twittering happily when he’d suggested it, and who was he to argue with a recently revived bird?

“Hmm.”

“That’s it? My, it looks like my chances of being a poet are dwindling to nothing, if I can’t inspire anything other than a grunt. What about Roach, then? Where’d her name come from?”

“Named all my horses Roach.” Geralt didn’t elaborate.

“Well, ignoring how weird-slash-heartbreaking that is, why do you name all your horses Roach?”

“’S a good name,” Geralt said, shrugging, and Jaskier knew he wouldn’t be getting anything further out of the taciturn witcher.

“Alright, witcher, keep your secrets. I won’t pretend I don’t have a few of my own,” Jaskier said, trying not to let it bother him. They only had a business relationship, after all, and clearly Geralt preferred to keep business and pleasure (read: anything approaching a personality) separate.

Geralt snorted. “What secrets could a traveling noble have? Gossiped about the wrong person at court? Took on too many gambling debts?”

“Something like that,” Jaskier hedged.

Geralt huffed again, but didn’t pry further, thankfully. He rode on in silence, Jaskier at his side, who was trying not to let the thrill of it all get to him. He was buzzing full of energy, keeping up easily with Roach’s pace, eager to get out of town and finally see the world.

That well of energy, which had seemed so endless, lasted about an hour before Jaskier could feel himself growing tired. The moon was well on its way to setting, and he hadn’t slept since the previous night. Despite his exhaustion, though, he pressed on beside the witcher, and if Geralt was impressed, he didn’t show it.

Besides, they were only a short distance from the palace, and it would only be a few hours before his father would awake and find him missing.

So they walked, and walked, until the sky started lightening. Crumb shook herself awake, chirping to greet the day, and Jaskier reached into his pocket for the crumbs he always kept handy, feeding her some until she grew bored and took to the sky above them for a bit.

Geralt stopped them just as the sun was coming up—Jaskier was flagging by then, eyes bleary and movements slow from lack of sleep. They made camp in a clearing, and it would have been an idyllic picture, were it not for the anxiety still running through his veins, worry at being found by his father’s men.

Despite his fear, however, he fell asleep quickly, and woke feeling marginally refreshed sometime around noon, though his stomach was twisting itself into hungry knots. Geralt offered him half a roasted rabbit—he’d never had something so gamey before, but he found it filling, if a little bland. Afterwards, they packed up camp. Or rather, Geralt packed up camp while Jaskier tried to help and felt distinctly in the way.

And then they were off again, traveling down the dusty road towards Novigrad. Jaskier wished he had his lute, just for something to do—Geralt was a truly awful conversational partner, and Jaskier daren’t sing, unsure whether Geralt might notice the magic in his songs.

So he was forced to spend the day making up stories to entertain himself, and reciting them for Geralt’s pleasure—or displeasure, judging by the way his brow steadily grew more furrowed throughout the day. Jaskier was tempted to push—he’d always liked knowing exactly where limits were, so that he could test them, but it was a fine line between testing limits and Geralt calling off the entire arrangement. Jaskier had no doubts that Geralt could easily leave him in the dust if he so wanted.

Despite his visible annoyance, though, the witcher never laid a hand on his sword, never growled or threatened or did anything besides grunt.

And though Jaskier had been the one to approach the witcher, there had still been a shadow of doubt in his mind, a steady undercurrent of—not fear, exactly, but something subtler. He was _aware_ of the fact that Geralt was a witcher, that was all, along with the knowledge that witchers didn’t take kindly to fae in all of the stories. But so far, Geralt had shown no inclination towards violence. He wasn’t forthcoming with much emotion, but Jaskier saw the kindness that lay beneath his hardened exterior.

He let Jaskier ramble—more than his father had ever allowed, that was for sure—and he always hunted enough food for them both, rather than leaving Jaskier to fend for himself. And as the days passed with them steadily trekking west, he spared a coin for a more practical pair of boots for Jaskier, made for walking, rather than the frilly useless pair he’d worn down to holes.

The little kindnesses kept racking up, and Jaskier kept a careful score—the boots, a blanket to ward off the chill of night, a quick hand yanking him out of the way of a tree when he wasn’t looking where he was going.

And it moved him, just a little bit—oh, who was he kidding? He was a romantic at heart—it moved him a lot. Somehow, despite his gruff exterior, and two very scary swords, and general grumpiness—somehow, despite all that, Geralt was kind, deep down.

And if Jaskier very carefully didn’t think about the life he was running away from, then he could pretend that they were simply two travel companions—nay, friends, even, on an adventure.

“Say, Geralt,” Jaskier asked, one day. “Why did you take the contract? I know it’s not your usual fare, and you may not be flush with coin, but you were comfortable enough that you could have turned the job down. What is it you’re hoping to get out of this?” Jaskier stroked a finger down Crumb’s back, not looking at Geralt.

Geralt was silent for a moment, poking at the fire between them. Its light glinted off his swords, his medallion, his eyes, casting his face in shadow. “Who says I want anything?” he eventually replied.

“Oh, come off it. You must want something for yourself. Everyone does.”

“Witchers don’t get to want.”

“And yet here we are,” Jaskier said softly.

They fell silent after that, and a strange sense of emptiness filled Jaskier. What a lonely existence a witcher had.

* * *

It had been almost three weeks by the time they reached the outskirts of Oxenfurt, far slower than Jaskier had originally expected—but they still had plenty of time before midsummer, and he hadn’t yet seen any sign of pursuers. In fact, he was happy to take it slow, ambling past emerald forests and spending nights in packed taverns, learning about the wider world and all it had to offer.

If he was surprised by the fact that Jaskier seemed new to all of it, Geralt didn’t show it; Jaskier stopped worrying after the fourth town, when the only comment Geralt made after a night of revelry was a reminder to put out the candle when he came to bed.

That was another new experience for Jaskier—it was more often than not too expensive to afford two rooms at the local inn, and so they’d been sharing a room. And, when the occasion called for it, sharing a bed.

The first time an innkeeper had told him there was only one bed available, Jaskier had taken it in stride. It wasn’t so odd, surely, for traveling companions to have to adjust to tight quarters? When he’d heard, though, Geralt’s jaw had clenched so hard that Jaskier feared he’d break a tooth. So he went to bed on edge, body painfully stiff with his efforts to keep still and not disturb the witcher—who slept incredibly lightly. No wonder he didn’t want to share a bed with Jaskier.

It had been a tense, miserable night, Jaskier unable to fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. He’d spent the next day miserably tired, and dreaded having to share a bed again—except the next time it happened, when he lay down to sleep, Geralt chose the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier apologized when Geralt closed his eyes, stretched out on the hardwood floor as if it were no different than the bed. “We can trade off, if you truly can’t stand sleeping with me.”

Geralt’s eyes shot open. “What?” he asked, confused.

“You don’t have to take the floor every time. It’s me who’s dragging you along to Novigrad, it’s only fair that I share the floor sometimes.”

“No, I mean, it’s you who can’t sleep with me,” Geralt answered.

“What?” Jaskier echoed. “No, that first night, you looked so unhappy, and I know you’re a light sleeper, and so—”

“Jaskier. I’m fine, as long as you don’t mind sharing a bed with a mutant.”

And so Jaskier scooched over until there was room enough for Geralt, and when he went too far and almost fell off the bed, Geralt put an arm out to anchor Jaskier to his chest, and Jaskier fell asleep quicker than he ever had, flush against Geralt’s warm bulk.

* * *

It was a day’s ride to the city, perhaps, when things went horribly wrong.

Jaskier had strayed away from the path—Geralt didn’t keep him on a very short leash, after a month of travel together. And sometimes something off the path caught his eye—this time it was a glint of metal amongst the bushes—and Jaskier would flit away to investigate, safe in the knowledge that the witcher would never lose him, since he could hear his every movement with those keen ears of his.

All it took was one wrong step. Crumb chirped a warning a split second before his foot hit the ground, but it was too late; he heard a click, a metal mechanism slotting into place, and then his leg was burning with unbearable pain, worse than he had ever felt before.

He screamed, falling gracelessly to the ground, hands coming to clutch at his foot, which, he saw through the tears in his eyes, was caught in a bear trap.

And there, emerging from the bushes where they’d lain hidden in wait—a band of hunters, bows on their back and knives in their sheaths, looking surprised to have caught Jaskier, and yet not disappointed.

“Look here, lads! We’ve caught ourselves a little lordling!” one of the hunters snickered, sauntering over. Jaskier shivered at the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Not the prey we were hoping for—but we can find a use for you,” he continued.

Jaskier didn’t even have time to consider what that use may be before Geralt burst onto the scene, sword drawn and eyes feral, taking in the hunters and adjusting his stance accordingly. “Back off,” he growled. “He’s mine.”

The lead hunter paled. “A witcher!” he breathed, white as a sheet, hands trembling. “We ain’t meaning no harm, sir, swear it,” he pleaded.

“You’ve already done enough harm,” Geralt snarled, glancing down at where Jaskier was hunched in a tight ball, curled over his leg. “Leave. Now.”

The hunters fled, unwilling to clash with a witcher. Geralt sheathed his sword and rushed over to Jaskier, who had begun shaking with terror and pain.

“Jaskier, what is it?” he asked urgently, hands hovering above his leg, as if afraid to touch. Jaskier could only shake his head and sob and shake, the world going grey around him from pain.

He was hyperventilating, he realized dimly, entire body going into shock. Everything seemed very far away, separated as though through a pane of glass, except for the blinding pain pulsating from his calf.

Geralt seemed to notice his approaching catatonia, for he didn’t wait for an answer before gently peeling his arms away from his leg. He pushed Jaskier to unfold himself, revealing the grisly horror before him.

It… actually wasn’t as bad as it felt. Jaskier had expected to see strips of flesh hanging off, or something, but instead all he saw was the prongs puncturing his boot, blood slowly seeping out around them.

It still hurt like a bitch, of course. Geralt shushed him, not meanly, but in a soothing way, as he took hold of the two jaws of the trap. “Shh, it’s alright, Jaskier, I know it hurts, it’ll be over soon, shh,” he murmured, and then wrenched the trap open.

Jaskier screamed once more at the feeling of the trap releasing, jostling his wounds, and gagged. Geralt tossed the trap aside, mangled and broken, and immediately gathered Jaskier into his arms and then lifted. The world spun as Jaskier was raised up, vertigo overtaking him, and though he didn’t pass out at the movement, he desperately wanted to.

Geralt carried him a short distance away—“No bear traps here,” he explained—and then sat Jaskier down on a mossy rock, turning to rifle in his bags for bandages and salve. Jaskier automatically went to cradle his leg in his hands, except Geralt turned around the instant he moved. “Don’t touch it,” he warned, then went back to digging around in his pack.

Jaskier gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, riding the waves of pain throbbing from his leg, still blinking away tears of pain.

“What were you thinking, wandering into a hunting ground?” Geralt admonished, as he came over with supplies to bind Jaskier’s leg.

“H-how was I to know?” Jaskier argued, voice thready. The last thing he wanted right now was a fight.

“You have to stay closer. People are cruel, and I can’t do my _job—”_ he punctuated this with a healthy application of burning liquid to the wound— “if you insist on wandering straight into trouble!”

“Do you think I wanted this?” Jaskier asked incredulously. “It’s not my fault!”

Geralt wrapped the bandages tightly around Jaskier’s leg, and Jaskier couldn’t help but wince at the reminder of his pain. “I’m taking you back first thing tomorrow. I never should have agreed to this.”

Jaskier couldn’t even think of a reply to that, so stunned was he. “Geralt…” he said weakly. His head was spinning, though whether it was from blood loss or Geralt’s words, he couldn’t say.

Geralt shook his head. “No. No arguing about it. You’re paying me to keep you safe, and this is the best way to do it.”

“I’m paying you to escort me to Novigrad! I can’t go home now, not when we’re nearly there,” Jaskier pleaded.

“Then I refuse payment. It’s not like you’ll be getting very far on this leg anyway. You’re going back to Tretogor in the morning, and that’s final.”

“No it isn’t! Geralt!” Jaskier yelled, but Geralt had stopped paying attention. The rest of the day, as Geralt finished tending to his leg, set up camp, and brewed Jaskier a concoction for pain, he didn’t say a word, nor even look in Jaskier’s direction.

It was even worse than his father had been. At least he’d _pretended_ to listen to Jaskier.

Even after Geralt kneeled down and slipped into meditation, Jaskier lay awake, stewing. How _dare_ Geralt back out of their deal? How _dare_ he presume that Jaskier was too much of a risk? He could take care of himself, thank you very much.

And he _couldn’t_ let Geralt take him back to Tretogor. It would spell the end of his freedom, forever. He’d sooner die alone in the wilderness than go back.

…There was a thought. He _could,_ Jaskier realized, just continue on his own. No witcher necessary.

As soon as he thought it, he was getting up, testing how much weight he could put on his injured leg. Not much—but he could fix that, couldn’t he? He threw a nervous glance at Geralt, but the witcher hadn’t moved since sinking into meditation. He hummed a few notes experimentally, and when Geralt didn’t react, started singing softly.

He sang a familiar tune, one of the ones his father had him sing whenever he was feeling down. As he sang, he felt his wound itching and burning underneath the bandages. It was uncomfortable, but he sang until the sensation stopped, and this time when he tried to stand up, he was able to without issue.

He quickly set about gathering materials—his waterskin, some food, a spare shirt of Geralt’s for when he needed to be less noticeable. He packed it all up inside of the bedroll and rolled it up, whistling a soft note to call Crumb to him. She alit on his shoulder with the barest whisper of wingbeats, and then they were off.

Of course, he had barely taken two steps when Geralt’s eyes snapped open. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

 _Fuck._ Well, there was no point in lying, not now that he’d been caught red-handed. “I’m leaving. You don’t have to come. Our deal is off,” he stated plainly.

“Jaskier, don’t be stupid,” Geralt sighed, and Jaskier bristled. “It’s pitch black out there.”

“I’m well aware.”

“If you try and leave, I’m going to keep you here,” Geralt warned. “For your own safety.” He shifted, tensed to spring, and he’d never before seemed such a predator.

Jaskier felt the first frisson of fear run down his spine, but he held firm. “So that’s how it is?” he asked softly. “I’m to be your prisoner, witcher?” He watched the way Geralt flinched at his words, and felt nothing but satisfaction. _Good_. Let him know how it felt to hurt like this.

“Jaskier, I don’t—” Whatever he was about to say, he cut himself off, eyes zeroing in on something in the darkness that Jaskier couldn’t see. _There’s probably not even anything there,_ Jaskier thought viciously, well aware of the lengths Geralt would go to to avoid conversation.

Jaskier half wanted to ask what it was, but fuck it, he was angry, and determined, and damn it all, if Geralt thought he could get out of this conversation by pretending to hear something, then he had another thing coming.

“No, I’ve had it, Geralt. I’m leaving, and you can try and stop me, but I have a _very_ mean bite, so—”

“Jaskier, quiet!” Geralt ordered.

“Don’t tell me to be quiet!” Jaskier yelled, startling Crumb into motion. She exploded upwards in a burst of feathers, scared by his outburst, pulling Geralt’s attention to her for a split second.

That was all the time it took for the royal guard to spill into the clearing, swords raised. Geralt leapt to his feet, but before he could make a move towards where his swords lay by their supplies, the guards surrounded him, pressing him in with steel on all sides. Jaskier started forward, but felt strong arms wrap around him from behind. He struggled, only to freeze when his assailant spoke.

“Ah ah ah, Julian, don’t make a fuss, or the witcher dies,” warned a voice in Jaskier’s ear. He closed his eyes. He knew that voice. He knew that voice _extremely_ well.

“What do you want?” Geralt growled, hands clenching into fists, though he made no move to attack.

“Oh, I think Julian here can tell you exactly what I want,” said King Stjepan.

“Father, please, don’t hurt him,” Jaskier begged, though he knew he was helpless to ask anything.

“Quiet, you little fool. You’ve lost the privilege of asking for favors,” his father said coldly, then jerked his head towards the captain of the guard. The captain approached, holding manacles— _iron_ manacles, Jaskier realized with a cold bolt of fear.

“Father—” Jaskier tried, but the captain clapped him in irons with no hesitation. It _burned,_ and Jaskier howled as he felt his flesh smoldering underneath the bite of the poisonous metal.

His father let go of him, stepping back impassively, but as much as Jaskier wanted to, he couldn’t do anything more than sink to the ground, pulling his arms against his chest and doubling over. His stomach heaved with pain, lights sparking against the backs of his eyelids, while his father and the captain stepped away.

He dimly heard Geralt demanding to know what was going on. Jaskier had never meant for this to happen—had never wanted to drag Geralt into his mess. The witcher may have had the stubbornness of an ox sometimes, but he _did_ care.

The burning, while it didn’t subside, did get easier to bear after a few moments, and Jaskier uncrumpled himself and gathered his wits just in time to catch Geralt asking, “—father?” His voice, normally so dry, was full of hurt and confusion.

“Yes, this mongrel fae fool is my son,” his father said, distaste evident in his tone.

Jaskier swallowed. “Geralt, I swear, I never meant to put you in danger—”

His father laughed. “Danger? Do you truly think me so cruel, Julian? No, I’ve gotten what I came for,” he explained, and the captain of the guard stepped forward to pull Jaskier clumsily to his feet, though he didn’t let go of his arm once Jaskier was standing. “And the witcher may leave in peace. I won’t even have him executed for treason,” his father assured Jaskier, patting him on the cheek. Jaskier only didn’t flinch from years of experience.

“Jaskier, what does he mean?” Geralt asked.

“It’s—it’s true. I’m his son, born to a fae mother I never knew,” Jaskier confessed. His voice was thick with tears he was holding back, tears of regret for hiding and lying and dragging Geralt into this. “I just—I just wanted to see the world,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for—”

“Enough, Julian,” his father ordered, sounding bored. “As I said, witcher, I’m sorry he caused you so much trouble. We’ll be leaving now, and _you,”_ he turned to Jaskier, face pursed in anger, “will soon regret this little escapade of yours.” He motioned with a hand, and the captain started to pull Jaskier into the forest towards the road, the rest of the guards slowly lowering their weapons and stepping away from Geralt.

Jaskier felt the last traces of hope slipping away from him with every step he took. He knew, he _knew_ with utter certainty that the moment he was back in Tretogor, he would be spending the rest of his very long life locked up in service to the king, with none of the meager comforts he’d been allowed before. He’d be lucky if he didn’t spend every moment in iron chains that burned straight down to the bone.

And he couldn’t count on Geralt to save him. Not only was their deal off—Geralt had no obligation, money or moral, to interfere, especially with how narrowly he’d escaped the king’s wrath. But even moreso, he probably wouldn’t even _want_ to. After the fight they’d just had, the petty way Jaskier had acted when all Geralt wanted was to keep him safe? That sealed the deal. He didn’t dare hope for any help from Geralt.

They reached the edge of the forest, where Jaskier saw a team of horses and a carriage waiting for them. The captain hoisted him up onto a horse and quickly secured his manacles to the saddle—it looked as if it had been modified for exactly that purpose, an iron ring sticking out with a length of chain welded on. If Jaskier tried to throw himself from the horse, he could expect a quick end at the horse’s mercy, dragged along the side of the road or crushed under powerful hooves.

The rest of the royal guard mounted up, his father not among them—instead, he opened the door to a carriage hitched to a pair of horses. Before he could climb inside, however, there was a rustling behind them—and Geralt burst out of the forest, sword raised defensively, making a beeline for Jaskier.

“Stop him!” the king ordered, though the guards were already in action. It was a close fight—Jaskier watched as Geralt danced and twirled around his foes, getting in clever thrusts and swings whenever he had an opening. But Jaskier also saw the little flashes of golden light whenever their swords managed to get past his defense and strike against his skin, though each time they glanced right off.

For a minute, Jaskier actually had hope that Geralt would prevail. He’d never seen him in combat before, but everything they said about the superhuman skills of witchers was true.

But then whatever golden shield it was that was protecting Geralt burst with a _bang_ and a shower of golden sparks. The next blow that landed upon him cut deep into the skin, drawing blood. Geralt faltered, and the guards took the opening. There were just too many of them, many against one, however enhanced he might be. All it took was one quick flick of a sword and Geralt was disarmed, his sword flying out of his hand.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted.

The captain turned and struck Geralt across the temple with the pommel of his sword, and Geralt collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Jaskier pulled uselessly at his bonds.

The captain advanced on Geralt’s prone form, moonlight glancing off of his blade, ready for the kill. “No, please, don’t,” Jaskier begged, but nobody was listening.

The captain raised his sword. Jaskier, always a coward, closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch.

“Stop,” called his father, and the captain paused, looking over expectantly. “Don’t kill him yet.” Jaskier’s heart soared, until he continued: “We’ll hang him publicly as a warning to all who would dare commit such treason against the king.”

“No, you—you _can’t,_ please, it was my fault, please just let him go, you can have me,” Jaskier pleaded.

“I already have you,” his father replied mildly. “You have _nothing,_ Julian, and I won’t hear another word out of you, or I’ll have you gagged.”

The threat wasn’t enough to stop him from begging and pleading for Geralt’s life. As he babbled mindlessly, saying whatever came to mind in an effort to save Geralt’s life, the captain clapped a pair of manacles around Geralt’s wrists. Then he was lifted, arms hanging limply over a pair of guards’ shoulders, and dragged over to an unmounted horse. The guards threw him over it and tied him in place, checking the knots several times.

Meanwhile, another guard had approached and gagged Jaskier, silencing his protests, so that the only outlet he had for his gut-churning fear was taken away.

Jaskier yanked his head away, shrugging off the guard who’d gagged him, and threw a desperate look at Geralt. Surely the witcher was just pretending to be unconscious, right? He could break free at any time, and was only waiting for the opportune moment to strike?

Except the guards spurred the horses into motion, and Geralt remained slumped where he was.

He kept waiting, waiting for Geralt to burst into action, to tear through the ropes keeping him bound like tissue paper—though he didn’t dare hope that Geralt would set him free too, not after their fight and all of the trouble Jaskier had brought him. Geralt would be smart to hightail it as soon as he could.

But nothing happened, and the party made their way west—to the royal hunting lodge, Jaskier realized, as he oriented himself. He’d personally never been, but his father came frequently whenever he needed a break from the stresses of running a kingdom. It was less than a day’s ride from Novigrad—and it hurt, knowing how close he and Geralt had been before being ambushed.

They arrived at the lodge just as the sun started to rise, and though exhaustion was starting to wear on him, Jaskier was tense, waiting for the moment when he might seize his chance. He waited as the guards untied him, though they kept a tight enough grip on him that he feared bruises would form. He waited as he was led inside the lodge, hearing the sound of the guards untying Geralt as well.

Jaskier was led immediately into a small room off the main hallway, but not before he caught a glimpse of Geralt, still unconscious, being dragged towards a flight of stairs leading down to the cellar.

The door to the cellar locked shut at the same time the door to Jaskier’s room did, the soft _snick_ spelling the end of their fates. The guard who’d accompanied Jaskier into the room—Pietr, who Jaskier had often seen from his tower window taking his breaks in the courtyard—tucked the key into his pocket, then dragged a chair against the door, sitting down in it as a last measure of defense.

“Pietr—” Jaskier started to say, but was cut off by the gag. He resorted to giving Pietr a _look,_ wide-eyed and pleading, but Pietr just snorted and shook his head. Jaskier slumped.

He wished Crumb were here. It’d been years since he’d been without her, though he supposed he was glad that she hadn’t been around for his father to see back in the forest. If he knew about her…

Pietr took out a knife and a small wooden figurine, half-carved, and began to whittle, obviously settling in for a long shift guarding. Jaskier sighed and sat down on the small bed in the center of the room—this was clearly a guest room of some kind that he’d been shoved into.

He’d forgotten what it was like to be confined to endless boredom. After a few minutes, he couldn’t stand it anymore, and stood up to pace, picking idly at his bindings. Pietr looked up and gestured casually with his knife. “If you get out of those, you won’t like what happens,” he warned.

Jaskier sighed and forced his hands to still, sitting back down on the edge of the bed, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. Just as he was thinking that it didn’t bode well that his father hadn’t come to see him yet, a knock sounded at the door.

Pietr got up and moved the chair aside, unlocking the door to allow King Stjepan into the room, and then sitting back down in his chair, out of the way. Jaskier ignored him, attention fixed on his father, whose expression was unreadable. Although, Jaskier did note, he looked distinctly haggard after almost a month spent searching for his son. Jaskier had always wondered why _exactly_ he was confined to the castle—this confirmed it.

The king _needed_ Jaskier and his magic, needed him to sing him back to health each day, lest he age and wither like a normal human. He’d heard rumors around the palace—that the king was far older than he claimed, that Jaskier’s mother had been an unwilling prisoner—but Jaskier had never lent them any credence.

Now, though, with a sinking stomach, Jaskier realized that they were all true, and that his father had only ever been using him. But he couldn’t vocalize it, any of it, because that _damned gag_ was still wrapped around his head.

“Now, Julian, don’t look at me like that,” his father said, narrowing his eyes. “You should be grateful! I rescued you from that brute downstairs, after all. I’m even prepared to forgive your little escapade—he manipulated you, didn’t he? Stole you away from me.” He leaned forward and tugged the gag down, placing a cold hand on Jaskier’s cheek in its wake.

Jaskier yanked his head away. “He didn’t do anything!” he hissed. “I know the truth, Father—you haven’t kept me locked up to protect me. You’ve been using me, just like you used Mother.”

His father’s eyes hardened. “So he’s filled your head with lies as well,” he said coldly. “Maybe once his head has been removed, yours will clear.” He stood up and made as if to leave, and Jaskier’s blood ran cold.

“No, don’t!” he said, leaping to his feet. Pietr rose too, hand going to the hilt of his sword, but his father waved him off.

“I’ll make you an offer,” he said, face shrewd. “The mutant must die—but perhaps his death can be delayed, provided you remain on your best behavior.”

Jaskier couldn’t stop the naked desperation from showing on his face, clearly, because his father smiled like the cat that got the cream. “I—yes, I’ll be good,” Jaskier promised—anything to delay, to give Geralt more time, perhaps even time enough to work out a plan to escape.

“Good,” his father said, stepping closer and pushing Jaskier back down on the bed. Jaskier sat, ducking his head, feeling the heavy weight of his father’s hand come to rest atop his head. “Sing,” the king ordered softly, and Jaskier opened his mouth and let the words fall out.

It felt _wrong,_ somehow, tugging deep inside his gut with every note. It almost bordered on pain—and then it _was_ pain, although around his wrists, the iron shackles burning hotter and hotter.

Jaskier cut off with a choked cry, folding in half.

“What are you doing?” His father’s voice was sharp. “What about the rest of the song?”

“Can’t,” Jaskier panted, and uncurled to show his father the restraints around his wrists. “It burns, and—it feels _wrong.”_

His father stared stonily for a few seconds, and Jaskier was terrified that he would storm out of the room and immediately order Geralt executed for Jaskier’s disobedience. But finally the king sighed and turned to Pietr, holding out a hand for the manacle keys.

It was a relief once the confining weight of the shackles was off. Jaskier rubbed gently at the blackened marks scorched into the delicate skin, tears rising to his eyes when he touched a particularly sensitive spot.

“Don’t make me regret that,” his father warned. “Now sing.”

It was much easier this time, and when closed his eyes and really concentrated, Jaskier could almost picture the magic flowing out of himself and into his father. When at last the song ended and Jaskier opened his eyes, he wasn’t shocked to see that the man standing before him looked _much_ younger.

“That’s better,” his father said, smiling. “Perhaps even good enough that I’ll let you see the mutant before he dies.” The way he said it, as if it were a _privilege_ he were allowing Jaskier, made him sick to his stomach. But he forced himself to return the smile, albeit shakily.

Satisfied, his father turned and handed the keys back to Pietr, not replacing the shackles around Jaskier’s wrists. Another reward for good behavior—and one that Jaskier could use to his advantage. Just before he left, his father turned and said, “Rest up, Julian. We leave for Tretogor tomorrow.” And with that, he closed the door behind him, which Pietr was quick to lock.

But he didn’t bother to drag the chair back in front of it, and an idea formed in Jaskier’s mind. Could he…? He never had before, but surely…

He started off softly, so softly that even he could barely hear himself humming. It was a slow song, _grave,_ full of low, dangerous notes, nothing like the lilting tunes he normally sang. He built in volume, slowly, steadily, until Pietr looked from his whittling in confusion.

“Stop that,” he warned, going to push up out of his seat, but his limbs shook when he tried. “What are you doing?” he gasped, as Jaskier grew louder and louder, heart beating like a war drum, channeling all of the fear and pain and anger he was feeling into his song.

Pietr’s eyelids fluttered, but slipped closed as Jaskier pressed on, his song inexorable and unavoidable. _Take, take,_ Jaskier’s soul seemed to whisper, where normally it whispered _give._

And he could feel it—could feel Pietr’s soul writhing, darkening, slowly dimming like a candle flame buffeted by wind. He could do it—he could finish his song, could take Pietr’s life as easily as breathing. He deserved it, serving such a wicked man—

Jaskier cut himself off, stumbling backwards in horror. What was he doing? He’d—he’d almost _killed_ a man, and _liked_ it, had _wanted_ to take Pietr’s life and snuff it out with his song.

Jaskier fell to his knees and retched. He was a monster, the kind that killed without remorse, the kind that had to be put down. Oh, gods. Geralt would kill him—he would _have_ to, if Jaskier was so—so _bloodthirsty_.

He retched again, though nothing came up. He stayed there, on hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut, trying to gather his thoughts—he still had to save Geralt. He owed the witcher that much, at least.

And then a persistent tapping at the window pulled him out of his thoughts. He pushed his nausea down and stood up, only to see Crumb perched on the windowsill.

“Oh, dear,” Jaskier whispered, opening the window. She hopped inside and immediately flew up to perch on his shoulder, pecking gently at his earlobe—her way of reassuring him that she was here. Tears welled to his eyes. “Oh, darling, I’m alright.”

He just stood there for a minute, taking comfort in her familiar presence, before he reminded himself of his next steps.

He crept over to Pietr’s motionless body—though he was still breathing, Jaskier noted with relief—and rifled around in his pockets until he found the set of keys tucked away. With those in hand, he carefully unlocked the door and peeked out—there were only a few guards milling about, but he still wouldn’t be able to get past them to the cellar.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Jaskier summoned the same anger and pain from before, singing them all to sleep. He was careful, this time, to stop before he went too far, before he almost killed them like he had Pietr.

He waited until the last guard slumped to the floor before darting forwards to the cellar door, silently unlocking it and slipping inside.

It was too dark to see, and Jaskier prayed that he wouldn’t break his neck as he made his way down the stairs.

Thankfully, with Crumb clutching tightly to his shoulder, he made it down unscathed. He shuffled forward slowly, confident that there were no guards lurking in the dark—the only obstacles were the barrels and crates that he stubbed a toe or two on.

His small steps eventually brought him to the far wall. He turned, trailing one hand along it while he shuffled forward, and after a few steps his feet made contact with something on the ground—something that let out a small grunt when he accidentally nudged it.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered, and then heard another grunt. He dropped to his knees, stretching out careful hands to check if the witcher was alright. “Geralt, I can’t see anything.”

He felt the witcher shift underneath his hands, and then a small flame flared to life, cradled in Geralt’s palm. Jaskier squinted, his eyes trying to adjust, only to gasp when he saw the dried blood that lined Geralt’s temple.

“It’s fine,” Geralt grunted when he saw the look of horror on Jaskier’s face. “Not bleeding anymore.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Jaskier said mournfully, aching to brush Geralt’s hair aside and inspect the wound himself, but knowing his touch would be unwanted. “This is all my fault.”

“You hired me to protect you from danger. If anything, this is my fault,” Geralt replied, hands clenching into fists. “Should have fought harder.”

“No, you couldn’t have known—”

“And you couldn’t have either. So drop it, alright?” Geralt said sternly. Jaskier dipped his head in acknowledgment. Geralt continued. “I understand why you kept these secrets, if this is what they bring you.”

Jaskier smiled bitterly. “Didn’t help in the end, did it? My father wants to kill you, Geralt. You’re to be hanged in the morning.”

“And he allowed you in here?” Geralt asked, struggling to his feet. The head injury had to be affecting him—Jaskier noticed the way the flame kept flickering, and Geralt kept swaying in place, although maybe that was just an illusion of the shadows dancing about.

“Well, not exactly. Speaking of, we really should be going before they find out.”

“Find out what?” Geralt asked, just as a shout rang out from above them, followed by the sound of running feet.

Jaskier cursed. “That,” he said tersely, snagging Geralt’s elbow and tugging him towards the stairs.

“What did you do?” Geralt growled, upon seeing the motionless bodies of the guards littered around the lodge.

“They’re not dead!” Jaskier yelped. “I—I almost did, but they’re just asleep. We can talk about it later, I promise, but we _really_ need to be going.” He pulled Geralt outside and towards the stables—Jaskier was relieved to see that Roach was there, stabled with the other horses—just as a racket of armored bodies running sounded out.

Jaskier looked to see the captain of the guard leading at least twenty other men, side by side with Jaskier’s father, who was incandescent with rage. “After them!” he snarled.

Geralt swung up onto Roach, yanking Jaskier up in front of him, and within moments they were off, Roach galloping at full speed. Their pursuers were close behind, though—the thunder of hoofbeats was loud in Jaskier’s ears, an echo to his racing heart, broadcasting his fear to the world as he gripped tightly to Roach’s mane.

Over the din, though, he could hear the creak of a crossbow being loaded. “Geralt, they—” he warned, only for the witcher to cut him off.

“I know,” he growled, spurring Roach on faster. As they came to a crossroads, he yanked sharply on the reins, and Roach wheeled to the side, so that the crossbow bolt whizzed harmlessly past them.

“Hah!” Jaskier shouted in triumph.

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Geralt warned, and yes, Jaskier could hear more crossbows being loaded.

“What do we do?” Jaskier cried, ducking lower over Roach’s mane, as if that would make her go faster. “We can’t outrun them, not with crossbows.”

“We keep west. We’re close enough to the border that we can make it.”

“Where?”

“It’s called the Free City of Novigrad for a reason. If we can make it there, your father won’t follow. He’ll have no claim.”

 _If we can make it._ Jaskier held on tighter and prayed.

More bolts whizzed past them, but miraculously, not a single one hit. Roach gave no scream of pain, and Jaskier didn’t feel the burning of iron pierce his body. Geralt, too, was silent, focused entirely on riding Roach and evading their pursuers.

After a tense half hour, during which they must have run out of bolts, Jaskier saw a bridge rapidly coming into view. “Is that it? Novigrad?” he asked Geralt, trying to turn around and look at Geralt, but he almost unbalanced himself, and had to return to facing front.

Geralt grunted, but it sounded like a positive grunt, so that was a yes. They had made it— _they had almost made it!_ It was perhaps a hundred yards, then fifty, then twenty—

“Stop them! They cannot cross the bridge!” his father yelled, and Jaskier grinned. He was free, they would be free!

Roach’s hooves echoed off of cobblestone as they reached the bridge and flew over it, and it felt like a weight being lifted off of Jaskier’s chest, one that had been there his entire life, and one that he’d only just realized was there. Never before had he known such security and such ensured freedom.

The sound of hoofbeats behind them abruptly cut off as the horses were pulled to a halt before crossing the bridge. Roach kept going, galloping nimbly through the streets, until they reached the docks district.

It was then that Jaskier risked a glance backwards, wanting to make sure that they had lost their pursuers—only to see Geralt’s stony expression, his face positively _grey,_ and when Jaskier looked down, he was horrified to lay eyes on a crossbow bolt embedded in Geralt’s side, the clothes around it soaked in blood.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted, just as Geralt slumped to the side, toppling off of Roach. Roach, the blessing that she was, slowed to a stop, and Jaskier threw himself out of the saddle. Geralt was lying slumped in the middle of the street, still as a corpse. Jaskier crashed onto his knees beside him, frantically trying to roll Geralt over and ascertain the damage. Crumb joined him, twittering in alarm, flying in panicked circles above his head.

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything, you stupid witcher!” Jaskier yelled, struck with the urge to shake Geralt. He refrained, though, instead gently patting around his body, looking for any other wounds he’d missed. Luckily, there was only the crossbow bolt.

“Had to—get away,” Geralt grunted, eyelids fluttering. He had to be near unconscious from blood loss, though he was fighting it, by the pained expression etched on his forehead. “Couldn’t let them have you.”

“Gods, Geralt, I can’t—you’ve lost so much blood!”

“You should go. Leave me,” Geralt urged him, tipping his head back towards the sky.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m hardly going to leave you to die in the street. I can—I’ll find a healer, or—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, far too calmly for the panic Jaskier was feeling. “Look. It’s the midsummer festival.”

Jaskier glanced upwards to see the sky filling with lanterns, released by the crowd standing along the docks. The shone like fireflies in the darkening evening sky, the choppy waves of the harbor casting glittery reflections.

It was beautiful, but Jaskier couldn’t appreciate it, not while Geralt was dying in his arms. “Never mind the stupid lanterns,” Jaskier choked out. What could he do, what could he do, what could he do?

Crumb landed on Geralt’s chest, hopping about this way and that, the way she did when she wanted to get Jaskier’s attention. Oh, of course!

He’d never healed such a serious wound before—he’d brought Crumb back to life, true, but she was a bird. It had been practically no effort. Geralt, though, would be a trial—but Jaskier would give his all to save Geralt’s life.

He started to sing, gathering all the energy he had, throwing every ounce of strength into his song to bind Geralt’s life to this world. He could feel it building, building, sapping his limbs of strength. The world was growing dark around him, but Jaskier kept singing, until he was practically shouting the words, _screaming_ at the world and all its unjustness. How _dare_ it try to take Geralt? Geralt, who was so kind, and brave, and _foolish_ to let himself die for Jaskier.

But not if Jaskier had anything to say about it. He was almost out of power, but he finished the song with one final _push_ of breath, hardly more than an exhale, but he had scraped the very bottom of the barrel. He’d given his all—either Geralt would be healed, or not, but Jaskier wouldn’t be awake—or maybe even alive—to see it.

He collapsed forwards, vision gone entirely black, and knew no more.

* * *

“ _Jaskier,”_ he heard, as if from a great distance away. “ _Jaskier, please.”_

Jaskier. That was him, wasn’t it? He tried to remember—he almost recalled singing, something sad, he thought. He normally preferred the happier songs, but this one had been important…

_“You can’t die. I never got to tell you…”_

Never got to tell him what? And who was it that wanted to do the telling?

Their voice was familiar, though, a rasping growl that made his heart clench to hear it. He knew that voice, knew that the person it belonged to was immensely important to him.

_“You can’t do this to me. I love you. You don’t get to leave.”_

Geralt! Jaskier remembered—they’d ran, and Geralt was dying, and Jaskier needed to save him. He struggled towards consciousness, fighting for it every inch of the way, Geralt’s voice his anchor as he climbed out of the blackness he’d fallen into.

The first thing he felt was a hand on his face. The second thing he felt was a full-body ache, the screaming of muscles long overtaxed, his very bones feeling hollowed out. He groaned, and the person above him gasped. “Jaskier,” Geralt said urgently. “Jaskier, come back to me.”

Jaskier slowly opened his eyes, which felt ten times heavier than normal. But he was rewarded with a welcome sight—Geralt was leaned over him, his silver hair a curtain around his face. His brow was pinched, but his eyes shone with hope that brightened to joy when Jaskier met his gaze.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. “Did I hear you say you love me?”

Geralt blushed, but whispered back, “Yes. I thought—Jaskier, you died.”

“What?”

“Your heart stopped. I couldn’t hear it anymore. How could you do that to me? _For_ me?”

“Because I love you too, you idiot,” Jaskier snapped back. “I wasn’t going to let you die. Especially not when it was my fault.” With the anger that rose up in him came a surge of energy, and Jaskier felt much less like death warmed over. He tried to sit up, but Geralt caged him in.

“What did you say?” Geralt demanded.

“I said I wasn’t going to let you die! Gods, Geralt, I’m trying to apologize here!”

“No, the other part.”

Oh. Jaskier’s indignant anger left as quickly as it had come, replaced with a softness that made his heart melt. “I love you, you stupid, self-sacrificial witcher,” he said softly, and then tried to sit up again. Geralt let him, this time, afterwards trying to back away, but Jaskier caught his face in his hands. “Can I?” he breathed, glancing between Geralt’s eyes and his mouth.

Geralt nodded imperceptibly. Jaskier surged forward, capturing his mouth with his own, feeling its plush softness. Geralt was still for a horrible half-second, but he soon returned the kiss, hands coming up to grasp at Jaskier like he never wanted to let go.

Jaskier lost track of time, only breaking apart from Geralt when his legs began to complain of their cramped position. He broke the kiss, ducking to lean his forehead against Geralt’s chest. Geralt lowered his head so that his chin was resting on the crown of Jaskier’s head.

“What now?” Geralt asked him, after a few silent moments where Jaskier simply soaked in the attention.

“Hmm?” Jaskier hummed.

“What will you do? You’re free. You can do anything you want.”

The question stumped Jaskier. What would he do? He’d never _actually_ considered life beyond his tower.

“Well…” Jaskier began. “I suppose I’ll start by going to the midsummer festival.”

Geralt chuckled, and then made to stand up, pulling Jaskier up as he did. No sooner was he on his feet than did Geralt hoist him into a carry, walking towards the crowd gathered by the docks.

Jaskier yelped. “Geralt, I can walk,” he objected.

“Hmm. What if I want to carry you?” Geralt countered, smiling.

“Well, I suppose that’s alright, then,” Jaskier caved. “If you must.”

They reached the fringes of the crowd, all of whom were still captivated by the lanterns being released into the night sky. Jaskier looked out over the horizon, where the sea met the sky, the darkness spotted with tiny spots of light as far as the eye could see.

“Isn’t it so beautiful?” Jaskier murmured.

“Yes,” Geralt agreed, but when Jaskier turned to look at him, he was staring at Jaskier. Jaskier blushed.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, meaning it with every bit of his soul. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Me neither,” Geralt admitted. “Before I met you… my life was dull. Dark. Like the sky without stars. I never wanted anything. But you… you’re a bright spot in it, Jaskier. Like a star shooting across the sky. You made me realize what I want.”

Jaskier beamed. “That was _so poetic,_ Geralt, oh my gods. You have to warn me before you say something like that.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Geralt replied. “And I’ll keep saying it, as long as you’ll have me.”

“That’ll be a long time, then,” Jaskier warned, fighting to keep his expression mock-serious. “You’re stuck with me, witcher.”

“Gladly,” Geralt rumbled.

Jaskier leaned down to kiss him again, chest full of love swelling up inside of him. And they kissed, and kissed, and the world’s darkness got a little bit lighter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment, if you liked it! also, find me on [tumblr](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr.com)!


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